The Game Is On

Chapter Two: I Object

I awoke suddenly, my hands groping the empty couch beside me. Mary was gone - most likely to prepare for the wedding. I checked my watch, blinking away sleep. 6:17. I sighed. In nearly three hours, my life would be brand new. I would no longer be the soldier who was forced home from war, or the blogger that the great Sherlock Holmes fancied as a partner. I would be Mary's, and Mary would be mine.

•

I adjusted my tie, the cream color matching the rose pinned to my jacket. I took a deep breath, flexing my fingers. A soft knock sounded at the door. I twisted the knob and pulled, surprised to see Mike Stanford standing before me. "John!" He greeted me, slapping his hand on my back. "Oh, I thought you weren't coming?" "Just dropping by," he answered, eyeing extra suit hanging on the door. I followed his gaze. Mary had insisted I purchase it, in case I had decided on a best man, but I knew I wouldn't be able to. Not after Sherlock. "Best man not show?" asked Mike. I shook my head. "I had one in mind but he's.. er...off somewhere else." I replied after a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it. My watch beeped. 8:30. Mike tapped me on the shoulder. "Congrats John," he said as he walked out of the dressing room. "Thanks," I called after him, waving my hand.

I looked back to the mirror, my reflection almost unrecognizable. My hair was long and grayer now, curls beginning to form at the tips. I'd shaved my mustache earlier after Mary complained, arguing that it made me look like an old man. I chuckled softly to myself. "Into battle," I said under my breath, before walking out the door into the church.

I stood before the rows of people, all chatting amongst themselves. I wrung my hands nervously behind my back as the clock tolled 9:00. It was time.

The piano played a soft melody, one Sherlock had composed before he died. I looked towards the ceiling, exhaling slowly, rebuilding the emotional guard I kept up. The guests rose as Mary stepped into the room, her beautiful white gown trailing behind her. I gasped, my breath catching in my throat. Tears welled in my eyes. She grinned, stepping carefully down the aisle. As she walked, all the pain from Sherlock's loss melted away. I gazed at the woman - soon to be my wife. She reached the alter as the song came to a stop. Beautiful she was, a shining star against the night.

"I, John Hamish Watson, take you, Mary Elizabeth Morstan, to be my wife. To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part."

Mary grabbed my hands in hers, squeezing them gently. "Wherever Sherlock is.... he's happy for you," she whispered. I looked down. shifting my feet. "I know," I said, smiling crookedly as I looked her in the eyes. The priest looked out into the crowd. "If these two shall not be wed," he began, "speak now or forever hold your peace." Silence filled the chamber. I loosed a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "You may now-" The priest was interrupted by a loud series of dings. I looked at Mary. Confusion was plastered on her face. One of the guests stood, raising his phone in the air. "It says... I object." Another woman stood, presenting her phone as well. A chorus of "same" and "me too" echoed through the church. I dropped Mary's hands. She looked at me, the confusion replaced with shock. "Do you think it's him?" She whispered. I clenched my fists. "It can't be him. He's dead."

Mary calmed the crowd as I paced around the alter, thoughts racing through my head. I yelled in frustration and slammed my fists against one of the tables. One of the guests yelped, jumping back. "Apologies," I mumbled. Sherlock was the only man I knew who had both the ambition and intelligence to pull this. But why?! He was dead... gone forever. I watched him jump off of the roof. I felt his pulse stop as I cradled his limp arm in mine. I watched as they carried him away on a stretcher, blood spewing out of his wounds. Sherlock was dead.

Mary wrapped her arms around my waist. I stood there, numb from shock and anger. "Are you alright John?" she asked softly. I looked down at her. "I was going to walk out of here today calling you my wife," I started, my voice shaking. "And now, my best friend, who I have mourned for two years, decides to ruin that?" Tears escaped down my cheeks. "How am I supposed to be okay with that?" I asked, sobbing into her shoulder. Mary placed a delicate hand underneath my chin, raising my face it to meet hers. "You don't have to."

She wiped the tears from my cheeks and took my hand in hers, guiding me past the rows of benches and out into the lawn. I followed obediently, unsure of where we were going. Mary approached a black limousine, opening the door and gesturing for me to get it. "That's my job," I said under my breath as she slid in beside me. The driver looked back at us through the mirror. "221B Baker Street, please." The car rolled out of the lot and into the streets. I glared at Mary. "I don't want to see him," I growled. She looked at me, her doe eyes sparkling. "It's for the best John, and we don't know, he might not even be here." I sighed. There was not point in arguing. Mary was right.

•

We reached Baker Street after a few minutes. The windows were dim and the curtains still hung brushed to the side. Mary held my hand as I walked to the door. My knuckles pounded the wood, a dull sound that resonated through the building. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, a huge grin forming on her face. "And you must be Mary!" She exclaimed, hugging my companion. Mary looked at me, chuckling. "That I am," she answered. I stepped into the hall, Mrs. Hudson and Mary following. "Is Sherlock here?" I asked reluctantly. "Sherlock? No, deary, Oh John... Sherlocks gone." I grunted, looking back to Mary. She waved me forward. "Right. Uhm... I'm just going to get some stuff from the flat then." Mrs. Hudson glanced at me worriedly. "Off you go then.." she said, leading Mary into the café.

I mounted the stairs, the floorboards squeaking beneath my feet. After fifteen steps I reached a black door. I caressed the wood with my hand before pushing it open.

Dust swarmed in the room and shafts of light peaked through windows. I examined the flat carefully, my eyes scanning over the furniture. Files were stacked up on the tables and a skull sat upon the mantle. Lab equipment decorated the kitchen table, microscopes left out from Sherlock's last experiment. The flat hadn't changed - the only thing missing was a detective and his blogger. I'd known it was hopeless - there was no way he could've survived the fall, but some part of me wished Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, humming nonchalantly to himself or muttering about the idiocy of the Scotland Yard. I missed the adventure - the blood pumping through our veins. Maybe I wasn't ready to give that up yet. I sighed and turned back to the door. A strong hand caught me, spinning me back around. "No..."